Malachi was tired.

The day dragged on in the way it only did when he was longing for a rest, stretching every moment to a minute, every minute to an hour. It was hot inside the church, warmed with the collective body heat of a recently-dismissed congregation and the mid-day sun outside. He sat in a pew nearest to the sacristy door, several buttons of his cassock undone near the top.

Then he heard a rattle.

Slow, unhurried, his fingers fastened the buttons back into place while he heard the door swing open, and he prepared himself to speak with the next poor soul that wanted help.

Malachi turned, but the sight of his visitor brought him to stand. Was that woman... drunk? At this time? His brows furrowed, and he watched her for a moment before he moved to the center of the aisle.

"Hello," he greeted, sensing that the woman would require some form of assistance. What kind, he wasn't sure.

Oh, God, thought Malachi.

Not just a woman. A mother.

The lady (was she also a lady? Was there a difference?) had the unfortunate balance of an uncoordinated deer on ice. Drunk out of her wits or sick enough to die, she had to be one of the two. Malachi hesitated where he stood, torn between the desire to help her and the deeper, primal urge to get away.

She was determined, he'd give her that.

As slowly as he'd fixed the buttons of his robe, Malachi moved closer to the floundering woman, shoes clicking distinctly on the floor. Father, son, Claude; the trinity she'd made of him brought a frown to his pale face. Whatever she was, she was out of her mind enough to take him for her son, which only made the priest more reluctant.

"Please don't call me that, miss."

'Son,' not 'Claude.'

Malachi walked closer, but stopped before the pew that she had attempted to use as support.

"I'm Father Brennan," he offered in the hopes that she'd at least take one of those words before the ones she'd granted him.

"Are you alright? Do you want some help up?"

Alright. This woman was not in any state to listen too closely to the things he said.

Malachi rushed forward in spite of himself when she fell back down, but the tumble from the pew's arm didn't seem to faze her much more than anything else.

Still wasn't her son. Still wasn't Claude.

He cast a cautionary glance about the rest of the church, but it was gracefully empty apart from them. Malachi mulled over the thought of just playing along, frowning down at her all the while.

"I know," he answered finally, sounding less like a dignified priest than an irritated son. He crouched down beside her, offering his hands.

"Would you at least let me help you up? The floor is dirty."

If only this woman had stumbled her way into the confessional before she'd fallen down, then he wouldn't have any presumed obligations to take notice of the suspicious things that came out of her mouth.

Leave killing people (killing a Ward, because she just had to be specific, didn't she) to mom. Mom, with her dirty soul and fears of familial damnation.

God, he hoped that was all. He didn't want to have to find a constable.

(He wouldn't have anyway.)

"But I'm a priest," countered Malachi. After another glance up to ensure that no one else had entered the church, he fell back from his crouched position to sit on the floor with her. "I can't get married, mother."

Was it wrong to play along with her drunken delusions, or was it a kindness not to disrupt her?

Malachi hadn't the first idea about who Noah was, or Claude for that matter, or why this woman was so sure of the former's dark fate.

"What if I have lustful thoughts then?"

Malachi could not even attempt to follow the woman's logic. Nevermind how strongly he disagreed with her notions of hell and damnation (that yes, he was sure the majority of the Catholic church shared), her ideas regarding God's selection of priests was faulty at best.

Why would he have sold his soul to Satan in order to become a priest? To lead the faithful astray from a better vantage point?

On second thought, that was probably the most logical thing she'd said since she stumbled into the church.

A fool's errand it would have been to correct her on any of the rest of it, and so he hummed along in vague agreement.

"Alright," he gave. "I suppose I don't suffer from that."

The woman's hand slipped beneath the hem of her skirt and Malachi's eyes shot wide.

Oh, God, not this again. Just yesterday, a girl having issues with her husband had asked him to 'give her what her man won't' in the confessional and he'd had to rather awkwardly explain why that would only make the problem worse, and- oh thank the fucking Lord when the woman pulled out a bottle.

"The-..." the communion wine? Malachi cleared his throat and said, "we're out. You don't have anything at home?"